


Harlan Bound

by fallencrest



Category: Justified
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, PTSD, Post-Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/pseuds/fallencrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he comes to, the first thing Tim Gutterson thinks is "goddamn, I wish Raylan were here." Second thing is "did they have to tie me to a fucking chair?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harlan Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jonjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonjo/gifts).



> Dearest Jonjo, I really hope you enjoy this fic. I went the case fic route and I had a lot of fun with it, so I hope you will, too. Sadly, there is no Boyd but season 4 left me with this incredible need to delve into Tim's headspace, particularly in the wake of his killing Colton, so I went with that and let it lead me and Tim down into the depths of Harlan, all alone, uncharacteristically reluctant to call on Raylan for help. I, like Art, underestimated how long it'd take me to make the trip down to Harlan: this is the longest fic I've written in a while. Enjoy the trip - because it's all your fault that Tim had to make it and some thing's gotta make up for all that pain and suffering.
> 
> P.S. The terrible title is because my brother (who is a 26-year-old straight dude) promised to photoshop a romance novel-style cover for the fic if I named it this - which is why you should always tell your bro when you're writing gay fanfic about a show he loves.

When he comes to, the first thing Tim Gutterson thinks is "goddamn, I wish Raylan were here." Second thing is "did they have to tie me to a fucking chair?"

__ 

It was meant to be an easy assignment: go down to Harlan, Art says, fugitive skipped out on the army, he says, wouldn't be marshal business only he stole cars and caused mayhem over three states. Figure you're the best choice, he says, being army 'n' all. What he doesn't say is "since Raylan's suspended," but that's subtext. And now Tim's gotta make the long drive all the way down to Harlan, to an address down on some unmarked holler road. Fugitive might've been army but he's Raylan's people, not Tim's. 

Suspect might not even be there, that's made pretty clear from the outset. It's just a standard call because the suspect's got relatives living there and the statistics all show that a fugitive's more likely to try and lie low with blood or an ex than anyone else. And, since no-one's put any ex-girlfriends or wives in the frame, it falls to the Lexington office and Tim to go way out to this guy's family home and see if his relatives are inclined to sell him out to a guy with a badge. 'Cause that so often works. It's got to be the best assignment going, might even beat out prison transport - probably matches it for road hours anyway.

Tim knows that, if this were the other way around, Raylan'd call him up, suspension or no, and drag him on a ride along. Hell, Tim's done the same thing to Raylan before. The trip out to Duffy's had been worth it. Raylan really had an effect on the guy. This time though, well, Tim figures better not. Not that he doesn't think Raylan'd be game for a ride along, guy's probably bored stiff, but Art gives him that look that says "no funny business", like he knows something's up, even tells him in as many words that he better not involve a certain friend of ours who's suspended on grounds of conduct, and 'sides, Raylan's more likely to throw Tim off his game right now than anything else. 

He takes his time, reading the file, double-checking the case details, before he leaves the office. Part of it's standard procedure, part of it's just hoping the damn phone'll ring saying that the Nashville office found their fugitive and is bringing him in, no need to bother the family. No need for Tim to go all the way to Harlan on a wild goose chase that is really about the least fun way he can think of to waste a work day. And, worse than that, Tim knows it'll be well past five by the time he's back in the greater Lexington area and there seriously isn't enough overtime pay in the world to make up for the hours he's working.

Worst thing of all though is that, just as he's finally leaving the office, checking his gun and grabbing his coat, Art looks at him all concerned, frown clearly in place. If this were Raylan, Art'd say, half joking, "and this time, Raylan, try not to shoot anybody" but it's like he's afraid (like everyone's afraid) Tim'll flip if anyone so much as mentions Colton Rhodes. Like Tim's a headcase, fragile, liable to shatter if not handled gently. But he did all the post-shooting paperwork, did the internal interviews to verify his statements and Cassie's too. ("The witness" they called her, never her name.)

"Is it true that you suspected Colton Rhodes of having killed a friend of yours, a fellow veteran? And is it possible that your shooting Rhodes was motivated more by a personal desire for vengeance than out of fear for your own safety or the safety of the civilians present?" On and on. He'd passed the evaluation, obviously, wouldn't be carrying now if he hadn't, but everyone looked at him like he hadn't. He wonders what Raylan'd say to that, whether people look at Raylan like he's a killer on the edge, knowing how liable he is to shoot first, no point in questions when you're dead.

__ 

It's past midday by the time Tim gets on the road. He passes time thinking about the case files he'd read on the family, passes some other time trying not to think about Raylan, and every so often, when a song comes on the radio that he knows some, he sings along. Most of the time, he doesn't know more than the chorus line completely but it's not as if he's got an audience or as if he'd be singing at all if he did. 

The family, who he thinks of as the Bradys even though their family name is Franks, are pretty much what Tim imagines would've happened to the Bradys in real life. Instead of daddy getting remarried and everyone being nice and wholesome about it, blending in and learning from each other like Tim imagines the Bradys did (he'd never watched The Brady Bunch, just knows the premise because, it turns out, some things are impossible to avoid) the Franks-Brady household became a mess of anger, resentment and petty crime. Youngest son Randall ran off and joined the military to escape it, something Tim doesn't have a hard time understanding. Tim doesn't have a lot of trouble understanding skipping out on the military either, if he's honest with himself. The sheet Randall's been racking up since he made his dash for freedom isn't something Tim'd like to think himself capable of matching - though he knows he probably is, in the appropriate circumstances. 

Anyway, and this is the thing that's really nagging at him as he pulls off the I-75, way Tim sees it, only place worse for Randall than the military has got to be back home, and that means he's just on a trip down to Harlan for nothing other than following standard procedure. Thing that makes it worse is that his explanation wouldn't really hold water if he tried it on Art or whoever Art's reporting to; it'd just sound like one of Raylan's hunches and it wouldn't stop paying a trip to the fugitive's relatives from being a box which needed to be ticked off on the long list of lines of enquiry. All he can really do is keep driving along increasingly narrower roads until they get unmarked and winding, and, when he gets to the Franks house, he can pull up, knock, and do his job.

__ 

Sun had been past the yardarm when he set off and it's coming up to four o'clock when Tim finally makes it to the Franks'. He'd only made two wrong turns, turning back on dirt roads til he found something familiar. Not bad. Only one time was he tempted to call Raylan and that was more out of exasperation than any real doubt that he'd be able to find the damn place. He'd resisted the temptation, too, and that was the main thing. 

The Franks house is a little worse for wear, paint peeling, grass a couple of weeks overgrown, but nothing to suggest serious neglect. There are two vehicles in the driveway, one pick-up, one station wagon, both older models but both looking to be in regular use. Tim can't recall whether or not the file he'd had on the Franks had contained DMV records, wonders about maybe threatening the Franks with automobile charges (tax evasion, failure to register vehicle ownership, whatever he can make fly), if they don't cooperate with his enquiries. Neither of the vehicles matches the list of auto thefts Randall Franks has wracked up over the past couple of weeks and that might've been an easier route but, given that Tim's still pretty sure the kid would rather go back to the army than back home to step-mom and pop, he isn't exactly surprised not to stumble across evidence of Randall's presence. 

It takes a bit of effort, not letting his hand linger over his holster as he knocks. Still, he knocks with his left hand anyway, just in case. He knows, logically, that this is just a house call, gotta interview the family and do a write-up, standard procedure, but there's something about going in without back-up Tim's never liked. He spent years getting used to being the back-up, hidden away in the back of a vehicle or on a rooftop somewhere; he's seen how things go down a lot of times, and he feels exposed. The house isn't even in view of another dwelling, far as he can tell, there's shrubbery guarding any view of the walk-up to the house from the neighbours anyway. He sets his jaw, tells himself he's calm, cold as anything, rehearses the script about being a marshal, just here to enquire, standard procedure, may I come in?

That part, as it turns out, goes just fine. Mrs Franks is all hospitality, says “oh Randall, he's got us all spun up, can't believe he'd do such things as they're saying. He was a troubled boy but never thought he'd cause so much trouble.” Meanwhile, Tim's checking the exits as he's ushered inside, stairwell directly in front of the door, one room to the left and the living room to the right which he's being led into. There's still a part of his brain left to register Mrs Franks' likely duplicity though, the unlikelihood of her really being surprised by the actions of the son when she married a man with a sheet as extensive as Randall's daddy's. Still, there's no harm in playing nice for the law; it's an old game, old as the law itself most likely. 

It's a small enough room that Mrs Franks leads him into, two squat couches and a TV the most notable ornaments. The girl on the couch looks up from her cellphone when they enter, grumpy expression on her face. Jonah Franks had three daughters, if Tim's remembering correctly, eldest gone off to live with her boyfriend two younger daughters still at home. One of them'd had a couple of write-ups for stealing cosmetics from a store in Cumberland but he doesn't know or suppose it matters much if it's the girl in front of him or the other. 

Mrs Franks maintains her veneer of politeness as she says to her step-daughter, “Casey, honey, will you run and get your daddy and tell him there's a marshal here, wants to talk about Randall?” There's something about the look that crosses Casey's face then which somewhat leads Tim to doubt that her stepmother normally calls her 'honey' but he isn't about to mention it. 

Mrs Franks keeps up a little idle chatter about how she figures he'll want to speak to her husband, being as how he's the man of the house and all and since he's Randall's daddy, of course, but Tim half wants to tell her to be quiet so he can track the sound of footsteps in the house: Casey's less than light tread on the stairs, probably meant to telegraph her annoyance more than anything, masks some of the other sounds but Tim's sure he heard another set of footsteps coming from somewhere off in the other part of the house. Tim had noticed the other girl put her head around the kitchen doorway as he'd come into the room, so he counts her off his mental list of Frankses who might be making the noise. Two daughters in residence, both accounted for; Mrs Franks; Mr Franks, Jonah, apparently in the house and upstairs; another son, Hank, unaccounted for; Randall. 

He's about to call out to the daughter in the kitchen, who he thinks was called Sarah Beth or something like it, ask her whether Hank's at home, when he hears the sound of Mr Franks' footfall on the stairs behind him. He turns instinctively, never present your back to the target, and greets Jonah Franks just as he had his wife. “Sir, I'm Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson of the United States Marshal Service and I'm here to enquire about your son, Randall.” 

Jonah Franks is a big man, imposing, not one you'd want to rile up if you could help it, Tim thinks, and he asks to see Tim's creds as if it's par for the course, even managing to sound a little annoyed by the necessity of it. When he's done looking he says, “so, you're a Mashall,” and sits down on the far couch, the one against the wall to the kitchen, before continuing, “my boy's gone federal.” He still sounds rather more dryly annoyed than anything by the whole affair and he doesn't invite Tim to sit down.

“Yes, sir, that's correct.” Casey and Mrs Franks both take what Tim can only think of as spectator seats on the couch against the wall to the entry way. Seeing as how Jonah doesn't seem to have any further questions of his own, Tim says, “have you seen or had any other contact with Randall since his flight from Fort Jackson?”

“I have not,” says Jonah, matter of fact and assuming a kind of disinterest at the whole proceeding.

Tim knows he should push the point but he'd rather be done with this and get out. It's enough that he has Franks' denial of his son's presence, the Marshal Service can't expect much more than that. “Can you think of anyone Randall might have contacted? Associates? People he served with?”

“Not as I can think of. Randall and I haven't been real close since he joined the army.” Jonah Franks is a sly witness, knows how not to lie whilst still not fully answering the question. He certainly must have a few leads he could toss Tim, if he felt that way inclined, but he's smart enough and criminal enough that he isn't about to go blithely handing out names of potential suspects in the aiding and abetting a fugitive. Most people think it's harmless, tell the police the name of this or that old school friend but Jonah Franks obviously isn't one of them.

“Mr Franks,” Tim says, “Sooner you give me some answers I can take back to my bosses to satisfy them, sooner I'll be on my way. You give me a name or two or open up about some little thing you know about Randall's likely movements or his past conduct, then I'll be on my way back up to the Lexington office, write this up for you. I can't promise there won't be anyone else here who comes looking for Randall but I will be able to put you down as co-operating in our enquiries and that might well save you a visit or two, down the line.”

“You think I care about-” Jonah Franks begins saying, voice touched with ire, but he doesn't finish because just then dear old Randall shows up, the man of the hour, guy Tim wanted to see the whole time. Only Tim doesn't see him for more than a half second before Randall's knocking him out with the butt of a shotgun and holy shit, Tim wishes his fugitive weren't here right now, contrary though that might seem to his aims and those of the Marshal Service.

__ 

He comes around slow and groggy. His thoughts not as ordered as he'd like. Not quite actually “goddamn, I wish Raylan were here,” though the word comes out of his mouth without his meaning to say it, a sort of gravelly rasp of “Raylan” that might be a question or just part of a thought. He says it before he even realises what's going on for real, works out that he's still in the Franks' house, still in the same room, only now- did they really have to tie him to a fucking chair?

There's a sort of chorus of voices around him: “he's comin' around!” and “what'd he say?” and then there's a face looking into his, peeling his eyes open. 

“What'd you say, son?” It's Jonah, the daddy, with all his imposing size. Up close, Tim registers bad teeth and weather beaten skin and notices for the first time what an old guy he is. He's still lithe though and he's got that canny alertness about him, the look of a man who's not yet ready to bow out of the game. 

The whole time coming up here, Tim'd been wary of Jonah Franks after seeing what a long sheet he'd made for himself. He's just grateful now that he'd paid enough attention to know there was nothing on there anything like murdering a federal officer, gives him a little hope that he might get out of this alright yet.

He takes time, probably just seconds but it feels longer, to register his situation. If he tries to look into the distance, his eyes swim a second before coming into focus but he hopes that'll pass. He's still in the living room with its two couches, and he's tied to a chair right in the middle of the room, wrists bound behind his back, through the slats of the chair and they feel sore. The Frankses are all present, or he thinks they are, he probably couldn't count for shit right now.

He's pretty far from feeling one-hundred percent, if he's honest, he can keep it together if he doesn't move his head at all or try to think too hard but he guesses Randall must have got him pretty good. He hopes it'll fade some more, more he wakes up. He can't afford to have a prolonged fight with a concussion right now. It's a sketchy inventory he's made of the position he's in, feeling as bad as he does, but he knows he'll need a little outside help to flesh it out, so he asks “I bleed out much?” because his head feels sort of damp and, with his hands tied, he can't check for blood. Words come easier than he'd feared they might though that might just be blind luck.

“Fair bit. Not as much as might've been expected. Reckon you'll live. Wouldn't recommend you try and drive any time soon though.”

Tim wants to ask whether than means they're planning on letting him go some time soon, give him the opportunity to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, but somehow he doesn't think it'd come out right, too many words. Plus, he isn't sure whether antagonising the guy right now would be his best strategy.

Still, next thing Jonah says is practically the beginning of an interrogation, “What did you say just then, when you was only just waking up?”

And Tim can't help it, guesses it's just part of his nature to make his next words into a kind of threat instead of a straight up answer. Besides which, there isn't any way in hell he's going to tell Jonah Franks the less than professional reason he might've been saying Raylan Givens' name. “I said, Raylan. As in Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. He's somewhat of a big deal. Pretty well known around these parts. Shoots lotsa people.” Somehow, saying it makes Tim feel a little better and, though his delivery might leave a little bit to be desired, he finds the words come easy, probably on account of the adrenaline coursing through him, “he's a colleague of mine and if I don't show up back at the office before closing time, he'll start coming right on down here. And, like I said, Raylan's a guy who likes shooting people and I don't think he'd like you much.”

But Jonah Franks is grinning, a sort of grin that makes Tim uneasy, and he says “Givens? Like old Arlo Givens? Oh, I'd like to be seeing him.”

There's a bit of discussion and dissent then, among the Franks family at large. Most of them withdraw into the kitchen, leaving just the other son and one of the daughters to watch over him. Tim doesn't mind having the spotlight off him for a minute, let him collect himself some more, though the tone of their discussion isn't wholly promising. He gets as far as thinking that he ought to try bargaining with these two, try and get himself a way out, but he can't quite focus, gets distracted trying to hear what they're saying in the next room.

There are some raised voices, particularly from Randall who seems damn sure another marshal on the scene's just going to mean more shit to clean up. Tim doesn't much like the phrase “clean up”, puts him too much in mind of a crime scene and a corpse to be disposed of; and he can't be sure he wouldn't be walking Raylan right back into some old grudge, Jonah Franks looking to get back at Arlo for some shit he did way back when, willing to use Arlo's son to do it. But Tim knows Raylan and, more over, knows Raylan's the best play he's got at this point (even if he gets free of the rope tying his hands, they've taken his gun and they're pretty much all holding, even if not all of them turn out to be competent with a weapon). So, when Jonah Franks, fresh off winning the debate with his brood, comes back in and says “how about you call his Givens of yours, speed this thing along?” Tim doesn't say no.

They find the number in Tim's phone, and Tim is sort of temporarily grateful he hadn't saved Raylan's number under the sort of sarcastic insult he'd long been tempted to, would've taken the kind of explaining he doesn't think his captors'd be partial to hearing. 

They hold the phone to his ear, won't untie him (more's the pity) and it's kind of uncomfortable, leaning toward the phone in Jonah's hand. He feels fortunate, at least, that they'd been quick to give up putting the phone on speaker, once Tim played dumb about knowing how. 

It rings only a couple of times before Raylan picks up and says almost instantly, all rye, cocky confidence, relaxed like a man settled into his enforced holiday, “And here I was thinking you were avoiding me.” 

Now this, this is a game Tim knows. Likes a little better than being a good hostage, too. “I was,” he says, keeping his voice as dry and neutral as possible. He's kind of grateful now for all the experience he's had at playing calm, pretending not to be the guy who has flashbacks and is liable go into PTSD lockdown at the slightest provocation. 

“So what made you change your mind?” Raylan asks, sounding like he's smiling, limbering up for the game that's now afoot, only at this point, he's probably thinking of a vastly different game than hostage recovery. 

“Well Raylan,” Tim says, still aiming for calm with an edge of sarcasm, “at present I find myself tied to a chair. Figured it was about time to call it quits. Plus, the good people here seemed to respond positively at the idea of seeing you. Don't suppose you'd like to come on down, lend a hand, give these folks the satisfaction they so desperately crave? I'd give you further details only this one guy looks about ready to knock me out again, should I happen to say something untoward.” It's true, too, Jonah and Randall Franks are both looking suspicious and edgy, like they don't like what Tim's saying or the tone of it.

“No problem.” Raylan says, and his tone hasn't changed much either, calm and cocky, no recognition in his voice of how this might be kind of a big deal. Typical. Probably Raylan's thinking this is going to be at least as much fun as he'd hoped for, when he got the call, “I'm happy to come down. Just let me get my coat. You wanna hand me over to whoever's precipitated this conversation. Might be I could thank them for putting us in touch.” 

So Tim looks up at Jonah Franks, not sure whether or not he'd been able to hear the whole exchange, and says, “He wants to talk to you.”

Jonah Franks' conversation with Raylan doesn't last more than a minute or so. Tim figures Raylan must've fed him some bullshit about it being quicker if Jonah just gives him the address, than him having to go through the paperwork to find it, because soon enough Jonah's giving an address and offering directions, which Raylan cuts short, provoking what Tim thinks passes for a look of amusement on Franks' face. 

After that, it's just waiting. And damn if Tim doesn't hate waiting, at least like this. It's just fine when you're watching the target, playing along with that bullshit the Rangers tried to instill in him about the stories; but it's no fun at all when you're in a room with a father and son, both holding, plus two armed teenage girls, and a middle-aged woman who seems to be filing her nails. 

It only gets worse when Randall starts saying shit about how they should've killed him and why'd Jonah have to get another marshal involved. 

Jonah Franks has the good sense to drag his son out of the room and give him a talking to then but knowing that conversation's going on doesn't exactly make Tim feel better. Still, at least his initial disorientation's cleared up a bit. It washes over him again occasionally, like a sick kind of vertigo, but that isn't anything worse than Tim's used to handling. 

__ 

When the knock on the door finally comes, Tim's half afraid it isn't Raylan, that instead it'll be some buddy of the Frankses, come to finish him off – or maybe a nosy neighbour who they'll kill in front of him, out of fear that their hostage situation might become public knowledge. And fuck if Tim hasn't let this whole paranoia thing get out of hand. Still, it doesn't feel like enough time's past for Raylan to be there, nowhere near enough time for the drive down from Lexington. He'd heard rumours Raylan'd gone back to Harlan, gone native, but these were the same people who'd called Raylan the Hillbilly Whisperer when he'd first arrived at the office so Tim hadn't credited it for shit. If it is Raylan though, if Tim's lost all grasp on time or if the rumours are true, even then Tim's still afraid that Raylan'll pull some shit, knock on the door only to sneak around back and attempt an ambush. That'd be stupid, risky and stupid. But then that's Raylan: risky and stupid and impulsive, damn all the consequences. 

So it's a relief when Mrs Franks opens the door to the sound of “Ma'am, I'm here for Deputy Tim Gutterson. I take it he's still here?”

Tim's chair is facing away from the entryway and towards the kitchen so he registers Raylan's presence in the room more as a change in the light. Seems as though Raylan stepped right on in past Mrs Franks without waiting for an answer. 

“Well, good evening everybody,” Raylan says, obviously registering the Franks family writ large and their substantial armoury. “Mind if I give my friend here a look over? Just to see he's unharmed.”

True to form, he takes their silence for the answer he wants and leans in over Tim, looks into Tim's eyes like he's checking for something. He's got that kind of concerned, scrunched up look on his face that he gets sometimes. Truth be told, Tim thinks he has that look on his face rather more often than a grown man should, telegraphing his mental state to anyone with eyes.

“Howdy partner,” Tim says, trying for irony, but suddenly realising just how dry his mouth is, suspecting he doesn't look so good. If he bled out some, as he's pretty sure he did, after Randall took that pop at him, he doubts the Frankses did much of a job cleaning him up, might be there's matted blood in his hair, staining the skin of his forehead. It's gotta be a real good look. 

Raylan says, “You look-” gestures with his hand a little over the tableau that is Tim tied to a chair and says, “well, you're alive. That's good, right?”

Tim smirks a little, can't help it around Raylan, it's a coping mechanism more than anything, only way he has to deal with all Raylan's shit. Then he offers, like a gambit, “better than you'd be in this situation. You would've found a way to make them shoot you.”

“Yeah,” Raylan says, smiling a little, “Probably I would.” Then he turns away from Tim, towards the room at large and says, “Now, I'm curious. You've got my buddy here all tied up, why'd you think it was such a good idea to invite me to the party? I'm a terrible negotiator on account of how I really don't give a shit how many people I have to put down in order to sort out a situation such as this. So, enlighten me, what's the play here?”

The Frankses are all present, all looking from Raylan to Jonah, waiting to see how this all turns out. Everybody's crammed onto one of the couches, 'cept Randall who's stood looking jittery in the kitchen doorway. And, as expected by all, it's Jonah who speaks up in answer to Raylan's question, says “You Arlo's boy?”

“Arlo was my father,” Raylan says, and there's an edge to his words that Tim recognises. He's surprised that that's all Raylan's saying, though it comes with more than the implication of 'that don't make me his boy'. 

“Arlo and I used to do some business together, way back when.” Jonah Franks says, seeming a little less sure of himself now.

“Oh,” Raylan says, “So what you're saying is you're a scumbag. Well, thanks for the tip, I'll bear it in mind.”

“What I'm saying is that you might be owing us some consideration, on account of the good our families done each other over the years. This situation,” Jonah says, gesturing over at Tim, still is all tied up, and Tim isn't sure how happy he is about being a 'situation', “isn't something I would've instigated, not something I approve of, treating a federal officer like that. It was a dumb thing Randall did, assaulting the good deputy as he did, but the boy's scared and fear does things to a man, things he might not be proud of.” Tim watches Randall, watches his anger flare, though Jonah is resolutely ignoring him, barely so much as a glance in his son's direction the whole time he's speaking, he's so fixed on Raylan, “Way I see it, my being an old friend of your daddy's, you might consider talking your fellow deputy here into not pressing charges, maybe allow the boy to slip out on you, let things slide, file your report tomorrow, maybe not for a couple of days, just saying how you interviewed us and we co-operated. As a favour to us, family to family, you know what I'm saying.”

“You hear what he just said?” Raylan asks, and Tim can see without craning his head too much, that the question's addressed at him, “He about accused me of being corrupt. What is it with people thinking that? There something about me implies I'm dirty?”

“It's your face,” Tim says, without missing a beat, “It's real untrustworthy.” Because he isn't about to say 'it's your father', even if they both know it's true; nor is he fool enough to remind Raylan that the way he behaves about crosses the line from time to time, even if Raylan's gotta know that, too, can't pretend everyone who knows him doesn't know how close he really is to being that thing he hates so much.

“Look, mister,” Raylan says, turned to Jonah again, levity gone from his voice, “if you think I'm going to do anything on account of Arlo other than give you a worse time than you already had coming, well, you are sorely mistaken. There will be no false reports and no head-starts for your boy. In fact, the way this goes is you hand over your boy and let me and my partner leave, or I start getting real unreasonable.” Raylan sounds genuinely riled, actually angry at Jonah Franks' insinuation, but Tim isn't sure if that's play acting or if it really hurts him, being thought of as corrupt, as his daddy's son. Tim suspects it's real, suspects Raylan'd try to pass it off as something it's not, a show, a bit of intimidation; but, with Raylan, the anger's almost always genuine, even if nothing else is.

Tim registers that the Frankses are looking around at each other now, one of the daughters makes a point of laying aside her shotgun. Jonah Franks looks thrown, grumbles something half under his breath about how he must not be the only one with a disappointing son. Not such a smart move, as it turns out, since it seems to anger Randall some and the kid was already looking for an excuse.

“You ain't turning me over to them, you ain't gonna do it. You promised you'd fix this,” Randall says, and Tim's been wishing all along that Randall, of all of them, wasn't carrying, because he's brandishing his weapon at his daddy now and that could turn into the worst kind of carnage. Scared son kills daddy, whole family seeks revenge against the law enforcement officers they see as responsible for the tragedy, it's a familiar story. 

Jonah, to his credit (or possibly discredit, Tim isn't entirely sure), stays absolutely calm in the face of the gun. He even gets up out of his seat and takes a step toward Randall like he's daring him to do it, leaves his own shotgun propped against the armrest of the couch. Tim can tell Jonah's a little shaken that his Givens family alliance gambit didn't pay off but he certainly isn't afraid of Randall. That might be a good sign, show that Randall's always been all bark and no bite, except that Jonah Franks hasn't seen his son for any real stretch of time since before he got shipped off to hell to kill people for nothing much more than wearing the wrong uniform, being on the wrong side of the conflict. 

“Marshal,” Jonah says, without taking his eyes off his son, “you mind if Randall and I step out for a moment and have ourselves a conversation?” He has the tone of a man who's about to give his son a beating for insubordination, bold move considering that he isn't the one brandishing a gun.

“Matter of fact,” Raylan says, right off, “I do.” As he says it, Tim thinks he can feel a collective intake of breath around the room or something like it, certainly doesn't seem like Jonah Franks is a man used to getting no for an answer. He knows that Raylan's made the smart call: can't let the Frankses start planning anything more rash than what they've already done today. But the way Raylan says it, all pointed and like he's giving Jonah a lesson, Tim thinks maybe Raylan's offended by the attitude Jonah Franks is showing towards his boy, Tim wouldn't be surprised at all if that was more than half the reason behind Raylan's objecting.

“You do me a favour, Mr Franks, go back over and sit down next to your wife. Do it slow, don't give anybody reason to spook.” Raylan's head turns, like his gaze is following Jonah Franks until he's sat down, but Tim'd bet a dime or his own life with equal certainty that Raylan never takes his eyes off Randall. Jonah Franks may have pissed him off but he isn't the one likely to do something rash and dangerous. 

"Now, son,” Raylan says, with that voice he puts on in these kind of situations, like he's talking to a spooked mare, “there's only one way this ends well for you, and that's if you put the gun down and allow yourself to be taken into custody by the Marshal Service. I'm not gonna lie to you," he says, body language all pacifying hand gestures "you might well serve a bit in federal prison, especially if my partner here decides to press charges, but it ain't so bad, beats running anyhow, certainly beats what happens if you don't lower the gun." 

Tim can see Randall better than he can see Raylan, can see how Randall's hands are shaking, knows Raylan's aren't, for all that his own gun's still in his holster. The gun shifts in Randall's hand and Tim can't tell if he's going to pump in a round or to lay the weapon down but, to Raylan, it doesn't appear to matter. Randall Franks is dead before he hits the ground. 

The next couple of seconds are vital, Tim knows, anybody might decide to go in for a bit of revenge. Tim wishes he were surprised by Jonah Franks' apparent lack of reaction, face set with a sort of enforced lack of emotion but no real sign of anguish. He hasn't reached for a gun. The other son's put his gun aside, too, but the girl who's still holding looks about ready to shoot. 

Tim would normally expect a softly-softly approach in this kind of situation, would expect the shooter to try and talk the girl down from the edge. Now seems like the right time for the spooked-horse approach, but this is Raylan and Raylan isn't diplomatic, especially not when riled up, so uses his impatient tone, the sort that accuses the girl of being dumb if she doesn't do as he says, and he as good as tells her that she puts the gun down now or she dies.

The girl doesn't have time to do anything before her sister's wrenching the gun from her hands and throwing it to the ground with less caution than Tim'd prefer. 

“Good,” Raylan says, lowering his gun a little but still holding. “Now, you,” he says, gesturing at the girl who'd been so reluctant to give up her weapon, only one willing to protect the remains of the family or avenge Randall, if it came to that, “are going to go untie my partner there, and then I'm going to make a phone call to some people who're going to be real pissed off about this whole mess-” Jonah and Mrs Franks both look like they're about to protest, “there will be no deal making. There will be no bullshit. Your son is dead and you wish to blame him for this whole damn mess that's your free choice, but we at the Marshal Service are not going to collude in whatever bullshit story you decide to tell,” he pauses before he says, “you got that?”

The girl gets up and walks over to him with a sort of blank and desperate sadness on her face, and it's the girl who'd been in the kitchen when Tim arrived, Sarah Beth, not her sister with the vicious face. Tim had been surprised to see that she, of all of them, had been the one pointing a gun at her brother's killer like that but, well, Tim supposes he's seen enough shit that he oughtn't be surprised anymore. 

She fumbles a little, untying the knots, but she gets it done. Tim watches Raylan, who's watching the girl as if he thinks she'll try something dumb again. The rest of the room is eerily silent, watching them, too: all eyes on the guy tied to the chair and the girl untying him. Then Tim's hands are free and he's bringing them round in front of him, testing the stiffness in them, examining the reddened patches from the rope burn.

“Reckon you're good to shoot, if one of these assholes tries something?” Raylan asks, offering Tim his gun. Tim's damn sure Raylan's got a back-up tucked away somewhere but there's something big about it, being offered the man's own gun. 

“The one thing I can always do is shoot.” Tim says, as he takes the gun, and it's true enough: in spite of the cramp in his wrists, he knows he could take down any of the Frankses without much thinking about it.

“I'll make the call then,” Raylan says, one hand resting atop the wooden chair that Tim's still sat on. He isn't about to go declaring it, but Tim's mostly only still sat there out of fear that, if he attempts to stand, he might not manage to stay standing for long.

Raylan makes the call, and Tim only really half listens, mind buzzing with all that's happened since he set off today on what was meant to be a dead-end routine enquiry. He can't keep himself from considering the shit Raylan'll be in, the shit he'll be in, or from feeling a little unaccountable sadness about the necessity of Randall's fate; all the while watching what's left of the Franks family as they sit silent and edgy in face of a pair of US Marshals, about to bring them to justice. 

Even when the call's done, they mostly wait in silence. Tim considers seeking out the bathroom so he can wash up but he's pretty sure he'd get complaints about his having contaminated the crime scene from one or all of the many law enforcement agencies about to show up. Same goes for trying to reclaim his weapon, probably not worth it given the shit he'd get for it, plus he's sure someone somewhere'll have the bright idea that they should process the gun before giving it back, in case one of the Frankses used it while Tim was out for the count or some other bullshit. 

House'll be crawling soon enough, locals and staties and federals all. Tim wonders if the army'll bother to show their faces, reclaim their lost son. It might be that the army doesn't do good by its deserters, Tim wouldn't be surprised. But a part of him stings at the injustice of that, army fucked the kid up more than he already was, army made him feel he had to run, army damn well ought to take responsibility and give him a decent burial. Hell, they even ought to give the family the benefits they owe, especially since Randall apparently felt he could rely on them better than he could the army. (Not a sentiment Tim shares but one he finds he has a sort of wistfulness over, almost an envy of, if he's honest with himself.)

He gets up out of the chair after a while, takes some tentative steps back and forth, feeling the slight uneasiness in his legs wear off, the initial head-rush from his slow rise to his feet ebb away. He catches Raylan watching, offers a grimace in lieu of complaining of his rough treatment. He doesn't much want to return to that damn chair again but after a while the pacing gets old and he can feel the tiredness well up deep inside him so that he knows that only dumb pride could compel him to stay standing. Raylan restrains from commenting and Tim's grateful for that though he has a feeling there'll be talk whether he wants it or not, once they don't have five pairs of eyes and ears on them.

__ 

As expected, the locals arrive first, on account of their being, well, local. The pleasant surprise in the case though is that they bring two cars, enough to round up the surviving Frankses in and cart them off for questioning. Normally, Tim'd make a jurisdictional argument, say the Marshal Service ought to be afforded the right to the first round of interviews but he finds he doesn't really give a shit. The more interviews the Frankses give, the more gaps there are likely to be in the consistency of their statements, more charges the Marshals'll be able to get them on when it's finally their turn. All's fair in love and law enforcement. And Tim's glad to be rid of the whole damn lot of them, spent more time in their company than he ever would have done voluntarily to start with. He doesn't want to stay sat sentinel over them any longer than is strictly necessary, even if that means handing them off to incompetents which is, after all, probably what he's doing.

He watches the locals bundle the whole family into their two cars, leaving one solitary officer behind to deal with the scene. He's glad to get out of the airless house, stands on the driveway, his breathing easier than it has been since he entered the damn house in the first place, hours past now. Raylan's there with him, stood at Tim's side, but at a respectable distance, the fact he's watching Tim much more obvious than Tim supposes Raylan intends.

"Thanks," Tim says, when the silence starts to feel like a weight; but he doesn't look at Raylan when he says it, even though he knows he probably should, show he means it or whatever it is looking's supposed to do. 

"Say," Raylan says, and it's the worst attempt at playing it cool that Tim's seen in a while, "you wanna talk about it, that thing we ain't been talking about? The reason you've been avoiding me?" 

Tim almost wants to laugh because it's typical Raylan, impulsive and self-centered and barrelling right at the thing he wants. "If I did, do you really think I'd be avoiding you?" 

Tim watches Raylan's reaction, can't help himself. He often finds himself unable to suppress that particular impulse. "Fair," Raylan says with a quirk of an eyebrow and a sort of half-pursing of his lips which sells his sincerity. "Let's not talk about it then. That mean you'll stop avoiding me?"

"Sure." Tim is willing to concede that, if Raylan's willing to concede the talking about it. "Not sure what difference that makes though, with you being suspended and all. Don't need to avoid much." 

There's a pause then, like Raylan's considering his next move but that's when Tim sees it, the ambulance coming down the narrow road with its lights off, no sirens. 

"That better fucking be for Randall," he says, even as the look on Raylan's face gives the lie to that suggestion. 

"Figured you could do with a little medical attention," Raylan says with a shrug. Tim hadn't heard that part of the phone call but it's possible Raylan had just confirmed someone else's suggestion or it's possible Tim just wasn't paying attention. 

He takes a deep breath and sucks it up. He knows as well as Raylan does that Art'll be pissed if he doesn't at least get the gash Randall made on his head looked at, his concussion assessed. But he isn't about to say that Raylan's right, so he voices his assent without actually agreeing with him, digs out his keys (which had remained, praise be, in his jacket pocket the whole time) and holds them out to Raylan, says "You better make sure somebody competent drives my baby home." And, seeing Raylan's face as he takes them, adds: "Not you. I said somebody competent. Hands off my baby, Raylan."

And then he lets the paramedic usher him aboard the ambulance, realising even as he does that his leaving the scene means Raylan's going to get all the shit from Art over the whole decable. Almost enough to make him want to apologise but not quite. 

The last glance he gets of Raylan, before the ambulance doors close on him, Raylan has his hat tipped low over his eyes, almost like a mark of respect and, yeah, that's the Raylan alright.

__ 

The paramedic asks him questions, doesn't give him a lot of time to dwell until she's done filling out her forms. It's only when she's done, Tim lets himself think. He lets himself think about Raylan, though tries not to think too much about the thing he hasn't been letting himself thing about. He's pretty sure if he keeps avoiding Raylan, Raylan'll just call him out on it again, push the issue a little more the second time, say something stupid where someone might hear. He imagines Raylan'll just come out and say, "so, you're avoiding me on account of something we both did, something we both enjoyed - or which you sure as hell seemed to enjoy-" something with a bit of accusation in it, accusing Tim of being a hypocrite. But, okay, Raylan'd probably be franker than that, would probably add in details, the kind of details Tim can't really afford to think about. Raylan would say "we got drunk and I sucked you off" like it was no big deal and, sure, there have been times in Tim's life when Tim's done that, a drunken blowjob given or received, and it hasn't been a big deal. And, for the record, he hadn't talked about it then, either. This is something else though, something that can't put down to just a bit of mutual enjoyment, at least not for him. He can't say that to Raylan, can't put it all on the line like that. Because Raylan, Raylan is all about the thrill and the immediacy of getting what he wants without thought for the consequences. Raylan wouldn't get it. He can't expect Raylan to understand.

He gets interrupted after a while, his thoughts stuck on Raylan, unable to clamber out of impossibilities and half-formed hope, by the paramedic asking him if he's alright. Tim tells her he's as alright as can be expected, given his situation and hopes she'll think the head injury he's sustained is the situation he's talking about. She asks him about being a marshal, "you like it?" all innocent and peppy and inquisitive and Tim says, "sure, it's better than most of the options I had anyway," gets lost thinking about the other options then, about friends who're contractors, private security, mercenaries for hire. She doesn't ask him anything else, and somewhere on the line he starts thinking about Raylan again, maybe because he's thinking about the choices you get, when you're a man who kills men and does it well, too well. And damn, he's relieved when they pull up outside of A&E, more relieved than he thought he'd ever be for getting to a hospital to treat some piddly concussion. Certainly beats being left to dwell on things he shouldn't.

__ 

The hospital trip is tedious as anything Tim's used to and he spends the duration just wanting to go home, wanting to go to sleep and forget everything. When he's seen everyone he's supposed to see, been informed of how he's got a concussion (who'd've thought it) and shouldn't be left alone, he heads out into the waiting room, pulls out his phone. He's about to call a cab to pick him up from the hospital, drive him the whole way home, back over county lines, with no care for the cost incurred by the Marshal Service once his expenses are filed, when his phone starts to ring. 

"I'm outside," Raylan says, "figured you could use a ride." After a pause, a silence Tim lets hang longer than he should, Raylan adds, "Jesus, Tim, I did not disobey your mandate and steal your fucking car, now get out here."

"On my way." Tim says, because he doesn't know what else to say, won't know what he wants to say until he sees Raylan, he figures. He knows Raylan's mostly here in order to make him talk about it and he fucking hates that. He hates how he'll be on edge for the whole conversation about what happened when Art showed up, how Art was probably even more pissed than usual because he'd got the call right in the middle of dinner, details of how much shit they're all in right now. Still, Raylan's here and that means something, something Tim isn't quite ready to wager on just yet but something all the same.

__ 

"You really living back in Harlan?" Tim asks, first thing when he climbs into the car.

"Just temporarily. Why? You want to sleep over?" Raylan looks over at him before he puts the car in gear, question more genuine than joking.

"I might, sometime," Tim says. It's impulsive, almost unthinking when he adds: "Right now though, sleeping's about all I'm good for."

And that's enough, seems like, puts a smile on Raylan's face, anyway, something smug and relaxed, "Guess I'd better get you home then," and Tim knows that Lexington's a long fucking drive, suspects Raylan hasn't got a place up there right now, so he says something about not caring either way, because it's true, watches Raylan smile a little more, wonders if he's going to regret this and finds he doesn't much care. 

Raylan doesn't say anything else about it, just runs Tim through what he missed after he left the crime scene, like he's telling the story of something that happened to someone else a long time ago. Tim dozes, not really listening, feeling more relaxed than he has for a while (he thinks, maybe, since before Colt, though that seems an odd place to put the marker). 

He falls asleep before he hears the end of the story, still not knowing which home they're going to.


End file.
